


Routines

by MCRdrugist



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:12:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MCRdrugist/pseuds/MCRdrugist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They didn’t like having their routines fucked with for this exact reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routines

**Title:** Routines [1/1]  
 **Pairing:** Frank/Mikey  
 **Rating:** PG-13 for language  
 **POV:** 3rd person  
 **Disclaimer:** I don't own, don't know.  
 **Author Notes:** 4,056 Words.

They fought, they always fought, it was nothing new to the band. That was just them, that was just how they got all their frustrations of being in a bus with too many people for years at a time, being half raped by fans every night, of the sexual frustration they had, out. Then the others would leave them in whatever place they happened to be at, be it bus, hotel room, or home, to fuck. Loud and long and forever, and when they couldn’t leave, well… they listened. They listened to the words and the feelings being shared and whispered, but still heard clearly through the paper thin walls. They all knew the routine; it had always been like that. It was routine for a reason. Happened almost every week like clockwork.

But this… this… this one was different. This one was big. Fists had been thrown, words had been shouted, and doors had been slammed. Two men off in their own corners to stew, only to come out swinging two hours later. Something was wrong, something was way wrong.

Ray was the first one to say it, quietly, so nobody could hear him but himself and his lap. Gerard heard. Bob was next, just as soft, just as quite, just as much to him and his lap. Ray heard. Gerard was last. This time to his brother’s face. Loud and proud like he had screamed his obvious queerness to the crowd they’d played to that night. Just like it too, “I SUCK BOB BRYAR’S COCK AT NIGHTS. WHAT NOW BITCHES?!” Bob had gone red, and hard. It was just like that with this. Gerard didn’t hide, Gerard said it. When others spoke to their laps, GerardfuckingWay said it to the party’s face. Loud and proud, the way he lived.

“You’re wrong and you know it Mikey.” Gerard was a blunt mother fucker; you had to give him that. It was a stupid, stupid fight, but two days later and they were still having it. It had never gone on this long, it was always solved the same night, band members didn’t like having the routine fucked up, and this was a big fuck up.

They only had so many things they still clung to as their routine, the shows, the songs, the notes, the beats, the fights, the makeups. That was it; they ate at ass-o-clock in the morning sometimes, or like two seconds before they hit the stage. They slept when they could manage. Usually all falling asleep hours after the show because the adrenaline was just pumping through their veins so violently they couldn’t sit still. They’d do things then. Play Guitar Hero, or DDR, or their Wii, just something to get them moving, to get the natural drug out of their systems. Then they’d sleep for like two hours before they were at a pit stop for some reason or other and they’d stumble into the daylight, blinking back sleep. Sometimes, they’d go literally days without sleep. Until Bob had to be put in the hospital for a week to sleep under a haze of drugs, because he was just too tired to sleep at that point, the band members all got good comfy hotel beds, and they fucked again, because they’d had a fight that morning from sleep deprivation. 

Routine, that’s what this was about, and the fact that they fucked it up. All because Mikey wanted Frank to “Slow the fuck down midget whore.” When Mikey knew, he fucking knew Frank was a whirlwind of energy, always the last one to wind down from a show, always the first one up the next morning, always into something new. This time it had been his idea to put out a book “A book Mikeyway, wouldn’t that fucking own? Just my story, my life, how I met you, everything. Fucking own!” And his voice had been so full of excitement and, fuck let’s do it now! Please?!

Mikey had sulked for three whole days before he blew. Gerard knew it was coming, because Mikey had crawled into his bunk that morning, and his bunk was “fucking rank man, use the Fabreeze or die,” according to Bob. Mikey didn’t say a word, just curled himself around Gerard like he used to when they were eight and five and their parents would fight, or a storm would be on, or they had snuck in a horror movie to watch together secretly under the blankets in the dark. And he just laid there, in his brother’s arms until his ass was fucking asleep and Gerard was ready to whine from his entire body just aching. 

So Gerard knew, and Gerard steered clear, he hid in his bunk and drew for TUA, or wrote depending on his mood at the moment. Ray and Bob picked up on Gerard’s change. Routine man, routine. Gerard always knew first, Gerard always hid, so Bob and Ray hid. Mostly in the studio to write and bang away at the drums to drown it out.

But routine had been broken. Mikey had said the one thing he knew would sting the deepest, fucking pansy. Always fought like a girl, going in for the soft spots with the sharpest point. “You’re going to wear yourself out again and start drinking!” It was loud, but the silence after that was louder, fucking deafening, it literally hurt Mikey’s ears. Until he had reached up to clap his hands over them, because he swore he felt blood trickling out of them.

Slowly, one by one, the three others had emerged from their respective hiding places. Later on Frank would swear Ray was in a cabinet. But they all crept out, they never crept out, they never got involved, they never stuck their necks out. The two always settled it, but this, yeah this was way different. Mikey had gone there. He had gone to the one spot on Frank that was complete mush, like that nasty brown shit on bananas that had sat for way too fucking long on the counter, the stuff that made you make that face. And he didn’t just gently prod at the spot, fuck no, not Mikeyway, no, he had slammed into it full force with an eighteen wheeler. He’d blame Gerard for that tactic later.

Routine was broken.

Frank hadn’t even responded to what Mikey had said, he just walked off the bus. He disappeared for two days. When he came back, he smelled like Pete Wentz. That’s when they knew it was way beyond waybad, it was wayfuckeduptothemax, because Frank fucking hated Pete Wentz like Bert McCracken hated Gerard Way, only times ten million, cuz there had been that whole messy blowjob make up thing between the two that wound up not working anyway, fucking Jeph. But Frank had disappeared, leaving his phone, his clothes, his fucking good luck charm on the bus.

He came back with a beard, brand new clothes, and smelling like Pete Wentz. Routine was not only broken now, but it had taken on a whole different form of wrong. Because when Frank came back to them, smelling of Pete Wentz, he didn’t even speak to them, to nobody. Like they all had said it, not the fuckedinthehead bassist. But still, okay, so he didn’t talk, at least he was there. Step one right?

Only, Frank didn’t stay, and he didn’t speak. He just packed. Not everything, but the important shit. Except, he left his phone again. Placed it pointedly on the counter as he walked out the door with two bags on his back. Which told the band two things, one, they were down a guitarist for much longer than a day or two, and two, that he had told his family where they could reach him, and no longer needed his cell phone which was… which shit. Frank was sometimes glued to that thing like Brian was, but he left it. And not only that, he left it on. That was the biggest sign of ohfuckohfuckohfuck. Routine obliterated. 

They got the call two hours later from Brian, and Mikey had answered, because, well, it was his phone that rang. He was kinda numb and he didn’t see who was calling on the caller ID just picked up with a soft “Frank?” but what he got back in return was “What the fuck did you say?!” Loud and Pissed Off Brian was the fucking worst after three days of no sleep. Mikey rubbed his eyes, feeling them drop heavily to his cheeks, it fucking hurt to keep them open now, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t sleep. Frank wasn’t there. There wasn’t the warm and soft edges of Frank’s small body attached to his side. The comforting weight of a heavy hand on his stomach where it always sat, always, was gone. And he couldn’t… just couldn’t.

And because he couldn’t his brain had stopped all function long ago, so he had no fucking clue what he babbled back to Loud and Pissed Off Brian, he thought something about a unicorn in grass smoking weed. He wasn’t sure. He just knew it wasn’t Frank. And he just knew when the phone was pried from his death grip and he just knew when he went to protest and was held back, and he just knew when Bob sat on him to keep him laying down, and he just knew when Ray pushed on that spot on his body to make him go all… weak boned and jelly legged. And then all he knew was blackness.

So Gerard handled it, took the message from Loud and Pissed Off Brian then relayed it to Mikey perching Bob and Spot Pushing Ray. Frank. Was not coming back.

It was then when they all became lost. Because it was the end of him, of us, of them. It had always been that way, mikeyandfrank, frankandmikey, always, since forever. They remembered the first time Gerard kissed Frank on stage; he walked off stage with a black eye courtesy of his little brother. It had never not been mikeyandfrank, even when they weren't a, quote unquote "couple", they knew, they all knew. Frank was off limits, he was Mikey's or Mikey was his, never mattered. mikeyandfrank, always. If Frank wasn’t coming back, then it was over, really over.

There was no My Chemical Romance without Frank Iero, there just wasn’t. And there was no MCR without mikeyandfrank.

A week later after five more cancelled shows, Loud and Pissed Off Brian showed up in person. Greeting Ray with a quick kiss, and Gerard with a hug, Bob with a shoulder pat, and Mikey with a punch to the arm. Mikey had fucked up, Mikey knew that. Brian knew that, Gerard knew that, Bob knew that, Ray knew that, Frank knew that, Pete knew that, hell, fucking Mother Mary knew that, but Brian still said it. “You fucked up Mikeyway.” Was the first thing out of his mouth after the nasty mushy talk he held with Ray under their breaths.

Mikey doesn’t even feel the punch, doesn’t flinch or move at all, which both surprises and pisses off Brian all at once, because he’s a fucking good puncher thankyouverymuch. Then again, he can be heard defending himself two seconds later when Mikey collapses, because at this point he’s running on no sleep in four days and no food in three, his body can’t handle that. So his eyes meet the back of his head and his limbs crumble seemingly in slow motion, or at least slow enough for Bob to be able to catch him quickly.

And then Gerard’s screaming at Brian, “Shut the fuck up about your God damn punch, we know it wasn’t you. Call a fucking doctor!” And Gerard’s this side of fucking nuts, because he’s also running on not enough sleep or food. Not by any fault of Bob’s, he’s been the dutiful boyfriend always, pushing plates of good food in front of his lover to no avail. Bob thinks the only reason Gerard’s not on the couch next to Mikey, is because he has more body fat his body can use. Mikey’s just bones and skin. Ray agrees with this theory. Not that Ray or Bob could talk, sure, they had managed to eat some, and they had somehow gotten Mikey and Gerard to lay down long enough for them to get short naps in here and there, but they were still pretty much running on fumes at this point.

It was decided four hours later that the Way brother’s needed professional help.

Mikey shuts down entirely when he comes to this time. There isn’t even a sound that leaves his lips as his eyes snap open all too fast, making his world spin and his stomach clench, still no sound. It’s Gerard that makes the sound, loud and high pitched, like a lost puppy, as he sees his brother’s eyes snap open a second before they actually do. And he’s right there next to Mikey, bony hand in his, soothing nonsense rolling off his tongue quickly. 

That routine the guys had clung to so vehemently, was so beyond gone now.

Mikey didn’t talk, didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, didn’t do anything, but stare at his dead phone and wish Frank would fucking call already. This was fucking torture to him. Two whole weeks with not one word from anybody that had heard about anything, or talking to Frank, and it also seemed that Pete had vanished off the side of the earth along with Frank. And when Mikey hears this, there’s pills, and a lot of them.

Gerard knows, he fucking knows because he’s there when the multicolored vomit is ripping Mikey’s stomach and throat apart. He’s there when Mikey looks at him, pupils blow wide open, and finally lets the tears go, and he’s there for the crash and burn. Bad fucking trip man. It isn’t pretty.

Then, when Gerard finally hears something, it’s tiny and in the darkest reaches of the internet, he almost loses it, and there’s almost booze. He saw the picture. It was fucking epic. Pete, in a bathrobe, with his arms around a tiny Frank in boxer shorts. Frank looks so small and lost in the picture, and Pete seems to be at a lost himself, he’s just kinda there. But its evidence that Frank’s fucking alive. Still… he wonders.

So he runs to Bob, who’s his fucking rock in a spot like this. He’s got the bottle in his hand, the cap’s open, he’s so there. He wants it like he’s never wanted anything else in his life. He can already taste it, feel the burn, he’s already half lost in the drunken haze he’s making up. But Bob’s there to catch him just before he falls. And Gerard feels fucking guilty because Frank wasn’t there for Mikey, to reach his hand out and say it. 

Take my fucking hand and never be afraid again…

So Mikey just falls and falls and falls while he has his Bobrock to hold him strong. To keep him saying it. 

I’ve lost my fear of falling.

And he’s so guilty, he almost pushes Bob away. Until Mikey speaks. “Socay.” That’s all he says. It was enough. Gerard so got it. It was okay to have someone hold his hand out to him and lift him up when there wasn’t anybody there for Mikey to do the same, because… there was.

Gerard was there with his hand every time Mikey started to fall. His fingers reaching beyond his ability to stretch sometimes, just to scream the words at his brother. The time when Mikey’s hardly holding on with his fingernails and Gerard’s got a hold of the tips of his fingers and he’s screaming it at him, over and over and over again.

Just take my fucking hand!

And then finally… after two days of dangling, he does. Its firm and its solid. Full palm contact, and Gerard tugs. And inch by searing inch, he starts to pull his brother off the cliff, as Bob pulls him off it too. And together, they make the climb.

And Mikey is almost at the top of the cliff when it comes in. The phone call. The one every single one of them has been waiting for forever. It’s Pete and he calls Ray, because he knows Ray won’t eat him alive when his voice rings true over the crackly line. There’s not much to it. Just soft words spoken. A location, apartment number, country, fucking country, and a time. That’s all there is, with a final, “He’s not good…” before the line goes dead and Ray’s kinda got that deer in the headlights look.

He just so happened to be alone in that very moment, which was weird, because ever since this whole thing started, they’d all lived together. Actually, in the same city Frank had split from, because neither of them could seem to leave it. They had gotten a place at some point, totally Brian’s doing, and they’d moved in mindlessly. But never at one time was someone alone, even when they took a shit it seemed someone was there with them. Always within touching distance, always within whispering range.

Once Ray collected himself, he dialed quickly, just hitting one and holding it till it dialed the number. He knew Brian was in a meeting at that moment, but still, after two rings, his voice rung soothingly over the line. “We got a call.” Is all Ray can say.

“When and where?” Is all Brian needs to respond. He gets the information he needs and with a quick, “You’ll be on the next plane. I love you.” The call's ended and Ray knows everything’s in action that needs to be, so he searches out the others.

He finds them all curled up on the floor in front of the TV, they had all been sleeping there, on air mattresses, just so they were all close. Mikey looked up at Ray doe eyed and sniffly, then Gerard looked up all watery eyed, and then Bob. The fucking rock of the group looks up, and even he’s a little misty eyed, because they all know that this day marks the two month mark. Even. So when Ray says it, it’s no wonder his voice is choked. “We’ve got a plane to catch.”

That’s all that’s needed to be said because they all know what it means.

Frank may have no idea what’s been set into motion in that moment, but, thousands of miles away on a secluded beach front island, Pete Wentz does. He looks over at the crushed and almost dead Frank and he knows he’s done the right thing. Even if his stomach does twist slightly when he closes the phone. It’s right, and he knows it.

mikeyandfrank. frankandmikey. Always, it’s the only way it can be. So Pete starts it.

Mikey almost passes out when the plane hits its highest point, because yeah, no food, two days. Bad. But Gerard doesn’t know Mikey hasn’t eaten in that long, because he saw Mikey eat that morning. Only, Mikey didn’t keep it down. Bob knows Bob rubbed his back as it came up; Bob kept his mouth shut as it came up multicolored again. That wasn’t his place, Mikey knew he’d fallen again, Mikey knew he’d be helped up. Bob didn’t say a word, just rubbed and soothed and wiped and cleaned. Then Bob held out his hand, and Mikey took it.

When the plane touches down, Pete’s there, waiting. Silently, sunglasses on, cigarette hanging from his lips unlit for the moment. He puts the thing back into his pocket when he sees the five men crawl off the plane. Four of them look like complete shit. 

Each one of them has sunken in faces and bags under the eyes. New bones stick out in weird places and there’s no life in them. Not really. 

Pete pushes off the wall and walks over to them. Not a single word is spoken between the men; Pete just takes the two bags that were packed and leads them out to the van he got ages ago for no reason. 

It’s fucking hot where they are, the sun burns down on them with no mercy, but none of them care. They’re going to see Frank. Finally.

Mikey clutches to Gerard’s hand in a death grip on the entire ride, his stomach aches with hunger and loneliness and all he thinks about is what he’s going to say to make this right. He comes up with an entire speech about how he just wanted more time with Frank, about how he missed how they touched at nights and held each other close. But the moment they pulled up to the building, his mind emptied.

Up in the apartment, Frank was just stirring from a two day nap. That’s what he’d been doing. Staying up for a week then passing out for two or three days, only to wake up again and not eat and not drink and not move until Pete threatened to shove a tube down his nose to get nutrients into the shirking man. Frank finally put food into his mouth, something easy, soft. Applesauce. He brought it right back up. So Pete made him shakes. They tasted fucking amazing, and had some powder in it to give Frank the necessary things his body needed to keep his heart pumping steadily. Frank could stomach those, because it was fruit, and ice cream, and the powder all blended up together and it tasted good. It was easy on his stomach, and he could take hours drinking just one, but he got it down and kept it there. That’s what mattered.

Frank rolled over to reach for the body he always reached for, not Pete’s. No never Pete’s. It was always Mikey’s body he was reaching for, but it was always Pete’s body he got. Not today, today he met cold bed. He didn’t know what to do. He sat up and looked around, rubbing at his eyes. He found a note taped to his forehead. Trust Pete.

He tugged it off and read it quickly before slumping back against the pillows and passing out again. This time, a little bit happier than before.

The next time Frank woke up and reached out for a body, he met familiar angles and points, along with not so familiar bones. He knew the body instantly and all he did was curl into it tighter. He could feel it. He could feel it in the way the skin stretched tighter over the bones that had always stuck out before, he knew he had fallen and he hated himself for not being there to pick him up.

Mikey felt Frank hating himself and the only words spoken between the two, at all for the next three days was the only phrase needed. “Socay.” Soft and innocent and perfect into Frank’s ear.

And that was it. That was the end. They had had the big break up fight, then they had the three days of fucking amazing make up sex. Slow and steady, most of the time, with a couple rounds of justgetmeoffnowpleasekaythanks. But really, this was a relearning of bodies, of desires, of likes, of needs.

None of it had changed, except maybe Mikey held a little tighter to Frank afterwards, and maybe Frank held back a little tighter, but it was all the same. There was still that stomach dropping sensation and the wonderful feeling of belonging and fitting perfectly.

When they finally came out of the room, tousled haired and blurry eyed, completely satisfied, everybody was waiting for them. The only thing said was by Frank.

He looked at Gerard with a sly smile and asked him the same question he had asked him five years ago when he wanted to ask Mikey out at first. “Can Mikey have my babies?”

Gerard snorted and nodded and that was it. Routine was back in place.

They were back on the road a month later. And all the things were familiar again. The shows, the songs, the notes, the beats, the fights, the makeup’s. And the band liked it that way. They needed their routines.


End file.
